


draw blood from the stones

by radiophile



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Character Study, Coming of Age, M/M, Pre-Canon, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-02
Updated: 2014-10-02
Packaged: 2018-02-19 15:49:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2394155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radiophile/pseuds/radiophile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian is six years old when he learns what <i>slave</i> means.</p><p>It will take over twenty years to learn what it means for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	draw blood from the stones

**Author's Note:**

> As this is a story set in a place where slavery is common practice, there is some implied nastiness throughout the fic. However, nothing is "on screen" or graphically described. See end notes for a full list of (spoilery) warnings.
> 
> This started with me idly wondering how Dorian could have been born and raised in Tevinter as one of the most powerful and elite members of their society, yet still come to recognize its corruption and leave it all behind. Somehow it developed into a much longer fic than I ever would have thought possible. This is, essentially, close to 11,000 words of pure headcanon. I'm not sorry. (Okay, maybe a little bit sorry.)
> 
> My undying love and gratitude to [Cecilia](http://psikeval.tumblr.com/) & [Helen](http://canistakahari.tumblr.com/), who encouraged me every step of the way to get this finished and then beta'd the sucker to top it off. You guys are the best ♥

Dorian is six years old when he learns what _slave_ means. 

He has heard the word often, for as long as he can remember; it almost always comes up when his parents converse among themselves or with other mages. Dorian imagines a slave to be some sort of object or tool, perhaps a special form of staff. Dorian knows what a staff is. ( _A is for Archon... M is for Magic... S is for Staff..._ )

"That's the fifth slave Artorius has gone through in a month," his mother might scoff. "Why doesn't he simply buy them by the dozen? Quantity over quality has always been his way."

 _What is a slave?_ Dorian wonders, every time. But like any well-behaved child, he does not interrupt while his elders speak of things he does not understand.

Dorian is used to staying silent. As the only child of the Pavus family, he is expected to be present whenever his parents are entertaining guests, which is often. His parents have many friends, it seems, although these friends are often spoken of with contempt and scorn as soon as they depart. Dorian isn't sure why his parents would want to stay friends with people they don't even like, but he reasons it is yet another adult matter.

For his part, Dorian hardly has any friends, liked or unliked. Several tutors come to the mansion to give his lessons, but he has no fellow classmates, no siblings or cousins, no neighbors with young children. Sometimes, his parents' friends will bring their own children when they visit, but their encounters are stiff and awkward affairs, and Dorian never knows what to say to them. Fortunately, he has Nera, who lives in the mansion along with her family.

Nera is twelve years old, practically an adult herself in Dorian's eyes, but she never seems to mind his company. More importantly, Dorian can ask her as many questions as he likes without receiving so much as a stern look. Despite her age, she is not so much bigger than he, with long ears and large eyes, and Nera is the one who explains to Dorian the differences between elves and humans.

Dorian likes the elves, who are soft-spoken and kind and do not glare at him for making noise. There are many of them living on the Pavus estate, but Nera is the only one close to him in age, as well as the only one with time or inclination to play with him. Much of her day is spent helping her mother in the kitchen or her father in the gardens, but she finds excuses to slip away and spend time with Dorian as often as she can.

There is always a thrill of excitement when they meet, because Nera insists that they must do so in secret. She makes him promise not to tell anyone that they are friends, teaches him how to swear an oath the way the elvhen do: clasping hands with laced fingers and touching their foreheads together, reciting back her strange words as best he can.

It is all a game, Dorian is sure of it, but he is happy to play along. The intrigue makes it fun, even when they're not together, and there's something supremely satisfying in knowing something nobody else knows. During the day, they slip notes to each other to determine their next meeting place. Nera can't read or write Tevene, so they use symbols and crude drawings, which suits Dorian just fine. He struggles enough with his tutors' assignments as it is.

Nera's latest message is a drawing of an open book, next to a moon high above a horizon. It had been snuck in with Dorian's breakfast, the scrap of paper tucked under his butter dish. At midnight, Dorian sneaks out of his room and tiptoes into the library to find Nera waiting with a bright smile.

"What shall we do tonight?" she asks.

"Hide-and-seek!" Dorian says, practically bouncing with energy. It has been over a week since they last got to play together, and he forgets to lower his voice in his excitement. She shushes him, and he repeats in a whisper, "Hide-and-seek. I've been practicing my hiding."

"Well, that's not very fair," Nera says, pretending to be cross. "How am I supposed to keep up when you've been practicing?"

"I'm still not very good!" Dorian insists. "Please, Nera? You'll find me, you always do."

She pretends to consider it for a long moment, _hmm_ -ing thoughtfully with a hand on her chin. "I suppose," she says slowly, "but we'll have to give you less of an advantage. I'll count to fifty instead of a hundred. Deal?"

"Deal!"

Nera closes her eyes.

Dorian hesitates for a moment, then, "Nera?"

"Five... six... seven," Nera murmurs.

"No fair!" Dorian sputters.

"Nine... ten... Better hurry, Dorian," she teases.

Dorian takes off running, knowing better than to waste more time arguing. He knows Nera can hear his footsteps with her keener senses, a fact that has made him lose every single hide-and-seek match they have had so far. This time, however, he runs up the nearest flight of stairs without any attempt to conceal his footsteps. Once he reaches the top landing, he hops up onto the banister and slides back down to the first floor, easing himself onto solid footing as silently as he can. He tiptoes past the library, where he can hear Nera mutter, "Thirty six... thirty seven..." and ducks into the room next door: a small sitting room where his mother likes to catch up on her letters.

He squeezes behind the armchair in the corner of the room and crouches down, hugging his knees as he curls around himself, heart pounding in his chest. Soon after, he hears Nera dash up the stairs, her bare feet hardly making a sound against the marble steps. He grins in triumph; he might just win this time, after all.

The glow of victory does not last long, however. It is uncomfortable to remain squished into the corner as he is, and Nera is taking an unreasonable amount of time looking for him. Just as he is about to get up and find Nera himself, he hears her padding back down the stairs. A moment later, Dorian can see her feet from under the chair, and he holds his breath as they move towards him.

"That was very clever, Dorian," Nera sing-songs. "But I know you're in here, you couldn't have gotten any further--"

"What do you think you are doing?"

Dorian claps a hand over his mouth just in time to smother a gasp. It is his mother, standing by the door and out of view from his hiding place. She had not even raised her voice, but might as well have screamed for the effect her words had.

"M-mistress," Nera stammers. "I'm sorry, I was... I wasn't..."

"I heard you say my son's name," his mother cuts in. "What right do you have to address him directly? Where is he?" A pause, then Dorian hears his mother continue-- only it couldn't be her, his mother could never sound so cruel: "If you have laid a hand on him, you will be begging for death by the time I'm through with you. Speak. _Now_."

Dorian has never felt true terror before that moment. It grips his heart like a cold fist, paralyzes him for a few seconds that seem to stretch into hours. He wants to move, he _has_ to move, has to show his mother that he's alright and stop her from sounding like that. Like she wants to hurt Nera, his only friend, now sobbing quietly just a few feet away from him. As if released from a spell, Dorian leaps from his hiding place and rushes across the room to throw his arms around his mother's waist, hugging her tightly.

"We were only playing! I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" he cries. He catches a glimpse of Nera over his shoulder and feels his heart crumble at the sight. She looks twice as frightened as Dorian feels, her head bent and her shoulders hunched. She looks up briefly to meet his eyes and shakes her head once, helplessly, before looking down again. Dorian belatedly remembers that he had made a promise not to tell anyone about their friendship, a solemn oath he had broken without a second thought. But that had all just been a game, hadn't it? And it wasn't fun anymore.

"Playing?" his mother echoes. She places a hand on Dorian's head, petting his hair soothingly. She no longer sounds cruel, and already Dorian is sure he had imagined the cold threat, the violence in her voice.

"Hide-and-seek," Dorian says, and sees Nera flinch out of the corner of his eye. But it's alright, if he just explains it to his mother, everything will be alright. "I was hiding, and Nera was seeking. I'm sorry, Mother, I know I'm meant to be in bed."

"Indeed you are, dear," his mother says. "Why don't you run along to bed now, and we will talk about this in the morning."

Dorian hesitates, looking back at Nera, but she won't look up from the floor. "We were only playing," he says again, feeble.

"Yes, I see that now," his mother says. "Off to bed, darling. You must be tired."

Again, Dorian hesitates. "You're not angry?" he ventures.

"I shall be if you don't go to your room," his mother replies, tapping his head lightly in reproof. "Go on, I'll be up in a moment to tuck you in."

Dorian releases his mother from his tight embrace and reluctantly turns to leave. He pauses just outside the door and looks back at Nera one last time. Her head is still bent low, eyes fixed on the ground. "Good night, Nera," he says.

She doesn't look up.

A moment later, his mother closes the door behind him.

Dorian lies awake in bed for what feels like an age, fretful and anxious. At last, he hears the swish of his mother’s silk nightgown as she enters his room. He sits up at once, gripping the covers close to his chest as he watches his mother conjure a flame in one cupped palm and make her way to his side. In the warm light of her magic, she seems soft and familiar, so far removed from the terrifying voice in the sitting room that Dorian is once again certain he had imagined it. Before he can give voice to the dozen questions clamoring at his throat, she shushes him gently, easing him back into the pillows with her free hand.

"It's late, dear," she croons. "I want you to sleep now, and we shall talk in the morning when we're both rested."

"Is Nera alright?" Dorian asks, unable to help himself.

Sure enough, the question earns him a stern look. "Don't concern yourself with that one," she says coolly. "And do not make me repeat myself a third time, darling. My patience is not endless."

Dorian decides not to push his luck. "Yes, Mother," he mumbles.

She tucks the blankets around him and presses a kiss to his brow. "Good night, my dear."

\---

Dorian didn't think he could ever fall asleep, but the night's events had taken their toll. He is woken by a knock at the door and sits up to find that it is already midday. It must be Nera with his breakfast -- now nearly lunch -- and Dorian calls out for her to enter.

His mother sweeps into the room instead. She is impeccably dressed, as always, her nightgown replaced by a black dress with full skirts that glitter like a raven's wing, her long, dark hair swept up into an elaborate knot. And she is carrying Dorian's breakfast tray, a sight so incongruous that he nearly bursts out laughing. She catches his eye and raises a perfect brow, her painted lips twisting into a wry smile, acknowledging the absurd picture she makes.

"I did say we would talk in the morning," she sniffs, and sets the tray atop his lap before pulling up a chair to sit by the bed. "And it is nearly past that."

"M'sorry," Dorian mumbles around a mouthful of warm bread.

She waves away the apology. "You need your rest, after all the excitement from last night," she says. "I admit, I was very cross when I found you up at such an hour."

"We were only playing," Dorian starts.

"Yes, so you have said." She reaches for his free hand and squeezes it gently, her expression suddenly grave. "But Dorian, it is very important that you understand: you must not play with slaves."

Dorian frowns in confusion. Slaves? Had they been playing with slaves? He doesn't even know what they look like, but neither he nor Nera had touched anything they weren't supposed to, he was sure of it.

"We were playing hide-and-seek," he says, uncertain.

"No, you were playing hide-and-seek _with a slave_ ," his mother says sternly. "You are a Pavus, an Altus mage and the son of a magister. You do not play with slaves." She wrinkles her nose slightly at the last, as if the words themselves are distasteful.

_Have you seen Licinia's new slave? A fine specimen, but she paid double its worth, if you ask me._

_If you're looking for a good deal on slaves, Tibius just brought in a new batch yesterday._

_Take a few slaves with you, my love, you never know what kind of trouble you might run into on the road to Qarinus._

Nera. She is talking about Nera.

For the first time in his life, Dorian understands. _Slave_ means Tullia, who slips him a piece of honey cake before dinner if he asks her nicely. It means Melanus, who keeps their gardens flourishing even in the middle of winter. It means Livia, who sings while she sweeps the grounds, soft, beautiful songs in a language he doesn't understand. It means...

"Where is Nera?" Dorian asks.

"Gone," his mother says simply.

"Gone where?" Dorian asks, his voice quivering dangerously as tears fill his eyes.

"Stop that," his mother snaps. "I will not tolerate any tantrums. She has been sold, to a good family who will treat her well, so you need not get hysterical over it. Only be glad that I was the one to discover this, and not your father. We shall keep it between us, so long as you promise me not to do it again."

Dorian swallows the lump in his throat, blinking back his tears as best he can. "But she's my friend," he protests, even though he knows it is the wrong thing to say.

"Slaves exist for one purpose, and that is to serve," his mother says harshly. "If you wish for friends to play with, I shall arrange it. There will be no more sneaking off to romp with slaves, do you understand?"

Dorian does not understand, but he doesn't want to make her angry. He remembers, vaguely, a terrifying voice promising death -- worse than death -- that sounded nothing like his mother, who even now is softening her tone, smiling sympathetically as she reaches out to brush an errant tear from his cheek.

"It is my fault for not explaining it to you sooner," she says, stroking his hair. "But you will learn, my dear. You can only be friends with someone who is your equal, and slaves are far beneath you. You can be a kind master to them, I can already see that you will be. But do not forget that you are their master, never their friend."

Dorian nods. He will not forget.

+++++

"You are a Pavus, an Altus mage, and the son of a magister."

The first time Dorian recalls being told this, he is six years old with bread crumbs on his face and tears in his eyes, wondering if he will ever see his best friend again. Ten years since that morning, and he has lost count how many times those words have been repeated at him, each title weighing heavier on his shoulders.

 _You are a Pavus_ , so he must keep up appearances at all costs, must not do anything that could bring even a hint of scandal or shame upon the house. _An Altus mage_ , so he must excel in magic by any means necessary, must sacrifice sleep and health to apply himself wherever natural talent may be lacking. _And the son of a magister_ , so he must be ready to rule, must seek out power and influence, must form alliances and discern his enemies.

There are so very many things Dorian must and must not do, but right now, all he wants to do is kiss a boy.

Dorian is old enough to know that this desire is considered unnatural. It certainly doesn't _feel_ unnatural, but what he feels hardly seems to matter at the best of times, so he never confides this side of him to anyone.

His name is Victor Kyros, one of the few Laetan apprentices studying at the Tower where Dorian trains under Alexius. The attraction had been obvious and immediate, when Alexius had introduced the two in passing. They had exchanged nothing but a few words and a handshake that lingered a second too long, but it had apparently been more than enough.

Within a few hours, they were pressed up against each other in a hidden alcove, and Dorian had experienced his first kiss. Followed quickly by his second, third-- until he lost count, and was stumbling away late for his afternoon lesson, robes and hair in disarray.

It has been several weeks since that first encounter, and Dorian is finding it increasingly difficult to focus on anything that isn't Victor. Eventually, he pays for his lapse in concentration when Alexius breaks through his barrier and sends Dorian slamming into a wall with a mind blast.

"On your feet!" Alexius roars. "That was a pathetic attempt. You are not even trying!"

Dorian stifles a wince as he scrambles upright, nearly falling to his knees as he staggers from the stunning spell. He bites back a curse of frustration; he should have been able to repel the blast easily, but instead he will be paying for this mistake for the rest of the afternoon, his head already starting to throb.

"You are lucky I chose to start with something small," Alexius continues. "I expect your barrier to hold against far greater attacks than that one."

"Perhaps you overestimate me," Dorian mutters, feeling mutinous.

"I am starting to think that I have," Alexius snaps. "Your lineage can be clearly traced back to the Dreamers themselves, Dorian. You have more magic in you than blood or bone. It is not your abilities I question, but your dedication."

The reproof stings, and Dorian feels his face grow hot with shame. He has great respect for Alexius, a strict and demanding mentor, but fair and generous with his praise. Dorian knows he is extremely lucky to be an apprentice to such a powerful and sought after magister, and he does not care to be a source of embarrassment.

"I'm sorry, ser," Dorian says. "It won't happen again."

Alexius sighs, his anger gone as swiftly as it had flared. "Is there something the matter, Dorian?" he asks. He never calls Dorian by anything other than his name, a fact that Dorian has always appreciated. After a lifetime of 'boy' and 'lad' from his father and any number of endearments from his mother, it is refreshing to be addressed like an adult.

"No," Dorian says quickly. "It's nothing, I've just been... distracted. Nothing is wrong."

"If your thoughts are preoccupied during lessons, then perhaps I should know about this 'distraction,'" Alexius says, although not unkindly.

Dorian falls silent, caught between the overwhelming desire to confide in someone and the fear of discovery. He admires and trusts Alexius a great deal, but he has not known his mentor for very long. It is hard to say how Alexius would react to a confession so personal, and he cannot put Victor at risk simply because he wants to divulge his hopes and fears.

"It's nothing," Dorian says again. Before Alexius can press the matter, he moves into a defensive position, holding up one palm and focusing his mana. "I am ready to try again, Mentor."

Alexius shakes his head, but smiles as he raises his staff. "Prepare yourself, then. I shall not go easy on you this time."

\---

Victor lasts another three weeks before the threat of discovery proves too much for him. He breaks it off through a letter slipped into one of Dorian's textbooks, enchanted to self-immolate within a minute after the seal is broken. As he watches the ashes scatter and disappear, Dorian finds himself more annoyed than anything -- by the idea of Victor taking the time to cast a spell rather than speak to him directly; by the letter itself, a brief and clumsy missive written in an atrocious hand; by being denied the satisfaction of burning the note himself. It all seems to Dorian a particularly spiteful form of cowardice, and he has no intention of letting Victor have the last word.

Anger gives him renewed focus during his morning lesson, his barrier holding against every spell Alexius throws at him, one of his own counter-spells slipping through his mentor's defenses. Alexius is hurled clear across the room by the force of it, taking both of them by surprise. Dorian quickly rushes to Alexius' side, rambling apologies, but his mentor waves them off as he gets to his feet.

"Do not apologize for excelling," Alexius says sternly. "You must never hold back on any account. To do so is to deny power rightfully yours."

Dorian warms under the subtle praise, but finds himself oddly unsettled all the same. Surely, there have to be _some_ occasions in which restraint is necessary?

Alexius senses his hesitation and raises an eyebrow. "You don't agree?" he asks mildly.

"It's not that, Mentor, only..." Dorian pauses, considering his words carefully. "There are some forms of magic we should never pursue, are there not? Even if they promise great power."

Alexius regards him with a bemused smile. "You speak of blood magic."

"I-- Yes. I am not naïve," Dorian says, despite feeling exceedingly childish in his protest. "I realize the practice is commonplace. But the dangers are real, aren't they? A mage would have to hold back to some degree, or risk becoming an abomination."

"There are ways to reduce or even eliminate that risk," Alexius says simply.

Dorian does not attempt to hide his shock. He had suspected, of course, that Alexius had some knowledge of blood magic. Even Dorian has a basic understanding of its principles, thanks to his parents' extensive library. But he never would have thought his mentor would speak openly of its practice, let alone suggest teaching it.

"It is far too early in your studies to be thinking of such things," Alexius continues. "We will discuss it when you are ready, or not at all, should you wish. You have power enough without its aid, do not doubt it."

"Thank you, Mentor," Dorian says, taken aback.

"I do not flatter," Alexius says dismissively. "And remember that potential is worth nothing on its own. It is what you do that matters, not what you could have done."

The rest of the lesson passes without incident, and although Dorian's anger has faded, his focus does not waver. Alexius' words have given him new resolve, and no small amount of pride, if Dorian is to be honest with himself. His mentor, one of the greatest magisters in Minrathous, has all but declared Dorian his most favored apprentice. Who gives a nug's ass what Victor Kyros -- a middling mage with no special talent, and a Laetan besides -- has to say? Dorian enjoyed their time together well enough, but Victor is nobody special and unworthy of further consideration.

That doesn't stop Victor's textbooks from inexplicably bursting into flames as Dorian passes him in the hall, of course. Someone ought to teach him not to toy with fire.

+++++

"Why is there a stranger in my bedroom?"

His mother looks up from her letters, setting down her quill as she smiles at him. "The elf? He's yours, darling," she says. "Your father and I decided it was high time you had a slave of your very own."

Dorian grits his teeth and martials his thoughts, fighting the urge to scream. Losing his temper now would gain him nothing, he knows from experience. His mother only responds favorably to genteel civility, regardless of whether it is sincere or feigned.

"That is very... generous of you, Mother," Dorian manages, "but entirely unnecessary. I manage quite well on my own."

"He is not a simple house slave." His mother clears her throat and arranges her skirts primly, an idle gesture that Dorian has long since learned to interpret as a warning sign.

"I do not want a slave of any sort," Dorian says warily.

"Yet as you seem to be incapable of reining in your, shall we say, inclinations--"

"Maker's breath," Dorian mutters, with mounting horror.

"--we thought it best to provide you with a healthier, more discreet outlet," his mother finishes, unperturbed.

A body slave. His own parents have purchased a body slave for him to-- to use. Dorian feels a sick lurch in his stomach, the taste of bile in the back of his throat. He swallows it down, his fists clenched against the urge to set the room alight. He welcomes the outrage, clings to the anger in the hopes of drowning out the sharper pangs of guilt and shame.

He has never made an attempt to hide his opinions on slavery, a point of contention that has won him few friends and widened the rift between him and his father. Even Alexius does little more than indulge Dorian's views, never once agreeing even if he remains the most sympathetic. But the fact remains that Dorian has yet to take any real action in support of his beliefs. If he's truly honest with himself, he has given less and less regard to the plight of slaves over the years. Alexius' teachings consume most of his time and energy, and Dorian has contented himself with the thought that once he is a magister, he will be in a better position to affect real change.

"He comes highly recommended," his mother continues, relentless. "But if he is not to your tastes, we can always get another. Whatever you like, darling, you can pick one out yourself. Only not one of those great horned beasts, if you please. I couldn't bear the thought of such a brute in the house."

"I thought you said I must not play with slaves," Dorian says bitterly. He feels another stab of guilt at the memory of Nera. He never did learn what became of her; by the time he was old enough -- and brave enough -- to make inquiries of his own, her new master had left Minrathous and the trail had gone cold.

His mother would never do anything so unbecoming as scowl, but a tiny crease appears between her brows, her lips set in a hard line. "You are being rather ungrateful, dear."

"Are you expecting thanks?" Dorian lets out a harsh laugh. "Do not hold your breath."

"You are a Pavus, darling. An Altus--"

"An Altus mage, and the son of a magister," Dorian interrupts, shaking his head. "Maker, don't I know it. I fail to see how any of that matters here."

"Perhaps if you do not interrupt, you will learn," his mother snaps, bristling. "Really, darling, I grow tired of this tantrum. You are our _only_ son, which makes your duty very apparent, I should think. You are twenty-three, my dear, it is long past time for you to start thinking about your future."

"I will never marry, if that's what you're suggesting," Dorian says recklessly. He is sick and tired of speaking in circles. "Not a woman, in any case."

"Dorian!" His mother leaps to her feet, too scandalized by Dorian's brazen defiance to school her features. She gapes at him, open-mouthed, seemingly at a loss for words. It would be a first, to Dorian's knowledge.

"You once told me that I could never be friends with slaves," Dorian presses on. "And now you tell me they are the only lovers I shall ever know?"

The look on his mother's face almost makes up for everything. For a moment, Dorian is sure that she is going to cast down lightning bolts right here in the sitting room. But with a visible effort, she regains her composure, her features smoothing into a calm mask with each measured breath.

"If the slave does not please you, darling, then I shall get rid of him," she says sweetly, baring her teeth in a perfect smile. "But rest assured, my dear, your indiscretions end today. That is not a matter up for debate. You will not disgrace this household any further."

"I have done nothing to disgrace anyone," Dorian says hotly.

"Do not make me repeat the gossip I have had to endure from all quarters these last few years," his mother says. "Whether they are true or not, you have done nothing to dispel the rumors. Your talent, our family's status, and Alexius' patronage have been sufficient guards against public scandal, but they will not last forever."

 _It's not fair_ , Dorian wants to shout, a childish and pointless protest, but the only one he can think of. None of this is fair. None of this makes any sense at all. Why should it matter who he chooses to lie with? Why would it be a scandal if he did so with a fellow mage, and not if he did so with a slave?

"Well, darling. What will it be?" His mother settles herself back down in her chair, smoothing out her skirts once more. "Shall I have the slave taken away?"

Taken away. Get rid. Sold. Like trinkets or tools or pets.

Dorian thinks of Nera once again, and shakes his head. "No, that won't be necessary, Mother."

It is too late for him to absolve himself of responsibility; whatever happens to the slave from now on, Dorian will not be able to turn a blind eye. His mother, Blight take her, had known this.

"I'm pleased to hear it," his mother says brightly. "Now, come here, darling. Give your mother a kiss."

Dorian obediently goes to her side and bends to press a kiss to her cheek. She laughs, wrinkling her nose at the tickle of his recently acquired moustache, and pats his cheek affectionately.

"Happy birthday, my dear."

\---

Dorian does not return to his bedroom until well past midnight. He had invented a last minute errand as an excuse to leave the house and by the time he came back, he found himself fashionably late to his own party. It was a large and extravagant affair, and he had been obliged to put on his best smile and charm his way through the guests. They were all prominent members of the nobility or notable mages rising in the ranks, and Dorian doubts if even a handful of them have ever spared a kind thought towards him.

He is completely exhausted by the time he reaches his quarters, drained in every sense of the word and ready to fall into bed and never leave it. He is halfway across the room before he sees a figure out of the corner of his eye and nearly jumps out of his own skin.

"Shit!" he yelps, jolted back to full alertness. "You-- you're still here."

The elven man -- the slave, _his_ slave, only Dorian still refuses to think of him that way -- is kneeling on the floor, hands folded atop his lap. He looks up to give Dorian a look of mild confusion, then quickly bows his head, eyes lowered. "As you instructed, Master," he says.

Dorian remembers opening the door to his room and finding the man kneeling there. He remembers hearing a soft "Greetings, Master" and feeling his heart plummet with dread. And he remembers spinning on his heel to run back downstairs and demand answers, remembers saying "Just wait right there" over his shoulder--

That had been well over six hours ago. Maker, Dorian could _kick_ himself.

"I'm sorry, I-- I forgot," Dorian says, cringing. He had been so desperate to get out of the house after speaking with his mother, to walk off his frustrations and clear his mind. Well, he had certainly done a good job of that. "I hadn't meant to suggest you could not move freely, in any case. I beg your forgiveness, that was careless of me."

The man is staring openly at Dorian now, surprise and uncertainty and no small amount of suspicion on his face. Dorian realizes too late how absurd it must seem: a mage begging forgiveness from his slave.

"It is... alright, Master," he says cautiously.

"Could you stand? Please? That is, if you'd like--"

But the man is already on his feet, rising in one fluid motion and standing with his hands clasped behind his back. If he feels any discomfort from kneeling on a cold marble floor for the last six hours, he shows no sign of it, his movements graceful and expression serene. He is tall for an elf, nearly as tall as Dorian, though he hides his stature with slightly hunched shoulders and a lowered head. Dorian suppresses the urge to get closer, keeping a respectful distance.

"I never properly introduced myself," he says. "I'm Dorian Pavus. May I ask your name?"

The man glances up at him warily, clearly ill at ease. "Marcus. But you may call me whatever you like, Master."

"Marcus is a fine name," Dorian says, smiling despite his sudden desire to hurl something heavy at a wall.

Marcus only nods in reply, and for a long moment the two simply stand there in awkward silence. Dorian shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot, while Marcus remains perfectly still, obviously used to being treated like an ornament.

Dorian can't think of a single thing to say -- an entirely new sensation, for him. He is not used to feeling out of place or unsure, much less in his own room. Finally, the silence gets to be too much and Dorian blurts out the first thing he can think of.

"I shall free you," he says, in a rush.

Marcus snaps his head up at that, his dark eyes wide with disbelief. "Master?"

"I shall free you," Dorian repeats, with more confidence this time. His parents would be furious, of course, but that only made the idea more appealing. They wouldn't have to find out about it until long after the fact, if Dorian was careful. "We'll go to a judge tomorrow, and you can be Liberati within the week."

Marcus flinches, his entire body jerking as if struck, but his face remains impassive. "Have I displeased you, Master?" he asks quietly.

"No! No, of course not," Dorian says hurriedly. "But you shouldn't have to live your life trying to please me, or anyone but yourself. That's why I-- That is, if I could, I would free every slave in the Imperium right this instant. But in the meantime, I suppose I can start with you."

The bold declaration is met with a resounding silence. Not that Dorian had expected Marcus to throw himself at his feet with tears of gratitude, of course; he isn't sure what he expected, really, but it certainly isn't the incredulous expression on Marcus' face. There is nothing submissive or neutral in the look he gives Dorian -- a mix of exasperation and annoyance, and maybe even pity. As if Dorian had just said the stupidest thing Marcus has ever heard, and the very thought of having to acknowledge it pains him.

Dorian has never much cared what others thought of him, with the occasional exception of Alexius and a few close friends. He has long since grown immune to the sneering disdain of haughty nobles, had once blown a kiss in response to a magister's scathing remarks. He barely even notices his peers' repeated attempts to unsettle him anymore, and his parents' constant disapproval registers as little more than a minor nuisance. Yet a single pointed look from this elven slave has Dorian feeling exceptionally foolish, his face heating with embarrassment -- something that hasn't happened since he was sixteen and caught daydreaming during a lesson.

Fleetingly, Dorian wonders if this is what Marcus had been like before he was enslaved.

"And what shall you do then?" Marcus asks, interrupting his thoughts.

"Pardon?"

"After you have freed all the slaves from bondage, what shall you do? Will you provide us with work? Shelter? Will you return us to our homelands, after years or decades or generations of absence, and teach us the language and culture we have lost?" The words spill forth in a great torrent, let loose after who knows how many years of holding back. Yet even now, his voice remains low and quiet, his hands still clasped behind his back. He barely pauses for breath as he continues, "There are three times as many slaves in the Imperium than all the rest of you put together, yet not once has a rebellion succeeded. Because the more of us there are, the more powerful you become. Our blood and our bodies and our lives--"

He cuts himself off with a gasp, his hands flying up to cover his mouth as if to force the words back. Before Dorian can react, Marcus falls to his knees and bends to press his forehead to the hard ground, palms placed flat before him in a gesture of abject prostration.

"Marcus!" Dorian starts, horrified.

"Forgive me, Master," he begs, his voice muffled against the floor. "I have no right to speak to you with such impudence, and even less right to ask for your pardon, but please--"

"You have it!" Dorian says helplessly. "You have my pardon, for whatever that's worth, and you have the right to speak to me however you wish."

"I do not, Master, I am your slave," Marcus says, and even amidst the distress, there's an edge of frustration in the words. As though he can't understand why Dorian would insist otherwise.

Dorian's first instinct is to grab Marcus and lift him to his feet, but he quickly rejects the idea. Instead, he approaches the prone form and cautiously settles himself on the ground across from him. He imagines what his parents would say if they could see him now, sitting on the floor to address his slave on equal footing.

"Please, if you can bear it, I'd like to speak with you face to face," Dorian says.

No matter how prettily Dorian asks, it is still too close to a command for Marcus to ignore. He sits up at once and looks Dorian in the eye, although it is clear that it costs him great effort to do so. His shoulders are drawn up with tension, his gaze wavering as he fights against the instinct to bow his head. Dorian smiles at him in what he hopes is a reassuring manner, nodding once in thanks.

"You are right," Dorian says quietly. "I spoke thoughtlessly, and I apologize. I do wish for a Tevinter without slaves, but that was not my immediate concern. I only wanted to free myself from the responsibility of-- of owning you." He forces himself to say it, not wanting to insult Marcus further by shying away from the bitter truth.

"Do you find me undesirable, Master?" Marcus asks, and there is a definite note of wounded pride in that question.

Dorian can't help it; he laughs. The flash of real indignation on Marcus' face only makes him want to laugh harder, and Dorian quickly rushes to explain, "Maker, no. No, that's not it at all. You are very-- That is, I simply do not want a slave, any slave."

 _No matter how desirable he may be_ , he thinks privately, because there is just no denying it. Marcus is striking in appearance, high cheekbones and bright copper hair tied back in a long braid, his skin lighter than Dorian's but dusted with freckles, suggesting a previous life in the sun. If he has pride in his looks, it isn't misplaced.

Marcus hesitates for a long moment, clearly struggling with some inner debate. Finally, he says, "If you do not wish to have me, you must inform Mistress."

"Mistress? You mean my mother?" Cold dread settles like a stone in Dorian's gut.

Marcus nods, his eyes trained on the floor once again.

"Is that what she told you?" Dorian asks, but he already knows the answer.

 _If the slave does not please you, darling, I shall get rid of him_. Not an offer, but a threat. One that his mother would not hesitate to carry out, should Dorian test her.

Marcus nods again. Is he aware that he is marking himself for death by his own admission? Dorian doesn't want to know. For the second time that day, he fights the urge to set the room on fire.

"We won't be telling my mother anything," Dorian says firmly. Marcus looks up at him, the hope in his eyes dispelling any doubts Dorian might have had; Marcus knew his life depended on Dorian's acceptance of him. Dorian forces himself to smile -- he's very good at smiling when he doesn't mean it -- and puts on an air of levity. "I can't promise I'll be a very good master, but I'll do my best. I've never had a slave of my own, you see."

Marcus only raises an eyebrow, the _I could have guessed_ gone unsaid but abundantly clear. It startles a genuine laugh out of Dorian, and he's exceedingly grateful for it.

"I shall look to you for advice," he says, grinning.

"I would never presume to give my counsel to you, Master," Marcus says. The words are as subservient as ever, but there is a lightness to them that suggests he is in on the joke.

"Please, there's no need for you to spare my feelings," Dorian says airily. "As my mentor and my peers and my parents and, well, just about anyone who has ever met me can tell you: my ego's plenty big enough already."

Dorian smiles at him, and for the first time, Marcus smiles back. It is small and unsure, but it is a start.

+++++

Marcus is sitting on Dorian's bed, bent over a book laid open on his lap while he absently runs a brush through his hair, wincing as the bristles catch on stray tangles. He looks up when Dorian opens the door, smiling easily in greeting but making no effort to move. It had taken many months for Marcus to grow out of the habit of leaping to his feet whenever Dorian entered the room, longer still to convince him that Dorian really meant it when he said Marcus was to make himself at home. But that had been four years ago now, and Dorian can hardly believe the same man who stayed kneeling for hours at an offhand remark is now lounging imperiously on his bed, making free use of Dorian's things.

Dorian feels the weight of the day's events lift at once, shedding his responsibilities along with his cloak and staff. He drops them both to the floor without a thought, toeing off his boots as he makes his way across the room. He sits on the edge of the bed, peering down at the book and pretending not to notice Marcus glaring at the mess he has made.

"Is that my copy of _Murder in the Deep Roads_?" Dorian asks, plaintively. "I can't believe you're reading it before I've even had a chance to crack it open."

"I have to entertain myself somehow while you're away," Marcus points out. "And if it's any consolation, you're not missing out on much. Heavy-handed prose, unlikeable hero, predictable plot twist--"

"Don't you dare," Dorian cuts in, voice rising in alarm. "I've been wanting to read that for ages, you will not ruin it for me."

Marcus sniffs in distaste. "I'm just saying, a child could work out the foreshadowing--"

"No, I'm not listening to this," Dorian says, clapping his hands over his ears and humming tunelessly. Unfortunately, he still sees Marcus mouth the words _The Warden did it_. He lets out a cry of indignation, dropping his hands and leveling Marcus with his most wounded look. "You're only joking, right? Not even you can be that heartless."

"I suppose you'll have to slog your way through this drivel and find out for yourself," Marcus says. He snaps the book shut with a clever little jerk of his leg, his hands still occupied with brushing his hair.

"You're insufferable," Dorian huffs, climbing up onto the bed to settle himself behind Marcus. He holds out a hand, and after a moment's hesitation Marcus places the brush in his open palm. Quietly, Dorian asks, "May I?"

"Yes. And you don't have to ask every time," Marcus murmurs, making the usual protest. He sweeps his hair back over his shoulder, and Dorian sees the tips of his long ears flushing red.

"I appreciate you humoring me," Dorian says simply. He runs his fingers through Marcus' thick hair, carefully smoothing out any remaining tangles before starting in on the brush.

They both know why he asks permission before touching Marcus, every single time. It isn't enough, Dorian knows it will never be anything more than a cheap substitute for real freedom, but it's the best he can do in their current situation. There are times when Dorian can tell it annoys Marcus, that he wants Dorian to stop reminding them who they are to each other outside of their little haven. But neither of them can afford to forget it, and Marcus least of all.

Dorian already made that mistake before, and Nera had been the one to pay for it. He won't allow the same to happen to Marcus.

It takes a while for all of Marcus' hair to be brushed smooth, and Dorian loses himself in the task. He used to wonder if Marcus keeps it long for his sake, or for the preference of some previous master. But the suggestion of a haircut had made the elf grow pale in horror, until Dorian managed to assure him that it was not in the least a desire of his own. Dorian likes it, but more importantly, it is clear that Marcus likes it, takes pride in the impressive length and eye-catching color. When let loose from its braids, it reaches down to the small of his back, gleaming like burnished copper in the light.

As Dorian starts dividing the hair into sections to braid it, Marcus breaks the comfortable silence.

"I take it congratulations are in order," he says.

"For what?" Dorian asks, distracted.

"I hear that you are to be made a magister."

Dorian drops the braid in surprise, unraveling it. He curses silently and combs it loose, starting over. He had been trying to think of a way to break the news to Marcus all day, torn between elation at achieving a lifelong goal and guilt at gaining still more power while the slaves continue to suffer. "How did you even learn about that?" he asks. "Alexius only told me this morning."

"Your parents invited several members of the nobility over to the house this afternoon," Marcus replies. "I overheard some of the conversation while I was in the kitchen."

"I suppose it was too much to ask for them to wait a day before bragging to their friends," Dorian snorts.

"They have cause to brag," Marcus says simply. "You will be the youngest magister in over half an age, at only twenty-seven. That is quite an accomplishment."

"Oh, it's not all that..." Dorian trails off, unsure how to read Marcus' mood.

Marcus glances back to give him a withering look over his shoulder. "Please, Dorian, don't try to act modest. You're terrible at it."

Dorian laughs, relieved. "It is rather impressive, isn't it?"

Marcus rolls his eyes as he turns to face forward again, but not before Dorian sees the smile on his lips. "The magisters would not have accepted Alexius' nomination if you weren't capable," he says. "There are plenty of people who will doubt you without you doing their work for them."

"Why, Marcus. Are you actually advising me to be _less_ humble?" Dorian teases. "That's certainly a first."

"I'm advising you to accept your new position without guilt or reserve," Marcus says, sounding piqued. "You earned this. Just remember why you've worked so hard for it all these years."

Dorian sobers quickly at that, falling silent as he finishes the braid. He ties it off with a leather cord that had been set aside for the purpose, tucking a few loose strands behind Marcus' ear. He feels Marcus shiver as his fingers brush against the sensitive skin behind his ear, and Dorian draws his hand back to rest it on Marcus' shoulder, a steady point of contact.

"I won't forget," Dorian says finally. He sounds less certain than he'd like, and he repeats, more firmly, "I won't forget. And if you ever feel like I'm losing sight of things--"

His hand is suddenly empty, and for an awful moment, Dorian thinks Marcus has moved away from him. But the moment passes and Marcus is only turning around to face him, folding his legs neatly to fit himself alongside Dorian's careless sprawl. Wordlessly, he reaches for Dorian's hands, lacing their fingers together. Dorian feels a sharp ache in his heart, remembering how Nera had taught him to swear an oath in the way of the elvhen. He doesn't know if that's what Marcus is doing, doesn't even know if Marcus has any knowledge of such things. But he squeezes Marcus' hands gently and bends forward, touching their foreheads together, and Marcus leans into it without any hesitation.

"I will do everything in my power to make things better for this city," Dorian vows. "For the entire Imperium. The slavery, the blood magic, the corruption -- it all needs to end, if there is to be any hope for our future."

Marcus smiles faintly, but there is no trace of skepticism in his voice when he says, "If anyone can do it, it is you."

They stay like that for a while, sharing breath, until Dorian leans back to scrub a hand over his face, suddenly exhausted.

"Maker, I wish..." he starts, before cutting himself off. If he lets himself go down that path, there will be no end.

_I wish we could be like this outside of these walls. I wish I had met you as a free man. I wish I could have courted you as an equal. I wish you were safe, and loved, and happy._

He feels a light touch on his cheek and glances up to see Marcus, looking both solemn and stubborn. There's a determined set to his jaw, a defiant glint in his eye that Dorian has long since given up pretending he isn't in love with.

"You will free us both," Marcus says resolutely. "I have no doubt of it. And I will be by your side, because I choose to be."

It is enough -- more than enough. Dorian smiles gratefully and asks, "May I?" his hands half-reaching.

In reply, Marcus rolls his eyes and throws his arms around Dorian in a tight embrace.

\---

Something is wrong.

Dorian can sense it the instant he crosses the threshold of the estate, the back of his neck prickling and the hair on his arms rising in instinctive alarm. By the time he reaches the mansion's entrance, he has his staff held at his side in a white-knuckled grip. There is an unnatural hush over the house, a silence so complete and smothering that Dorian can almost feel it like a physical thing, a resisting wall of murky-thick stillness. He pushes through it, deliberately slamming the heavy front doors behind him to break the stifling quiet. He regrets it almost immediately. Without the cool evening breeze at his back, the sense of feeling trapped only worsens, and he soon notices a faint, unpleasant odor hanging in the air.

Before he can begin trying to place it, his mother appears at the end of the atrium -- along with his father.

"What has happened?" Dorian asks immediately, even as they make their way towards him.

His father is rarely at home, and when he is, he does not voluntarily see Dorian. They have never been close, even when Dorian was a boy, but any chance at maintaining a civil relationship was destroyed once rumors of Dorian's proclivities started making the rounds.

When it comes to appearance, Dorian takes after him a great deal -- no doubt as great a source of irritation for his father as it is for Dorian. On nearly every other matter under the sun, however, they stand at odds. Dorian does not see eye to eye with either of his parents, but he is at least able to maintain the illusion of being on good terms with his mother. His father is another matter entirely, and after the fifth time Dorian had been on the verge of being thrown out of the house, the two had come to an accord. For the past several years, they have kept the peace by studiously pretending the other doesn't exist, with Dorian's mother acting as a go-between wherever necessary.

Yet here his father stands now, arm in arm with his mother, as stony-faced and imposing as ever. A flicker of distaste crosses his features as he glances at Dorian, as though the mere sight of him offends. Dorian takes it as a challenge, stares hard at his father and does not look away.

"You are supposed to be in Qarinus," Dorian says, deliberately direct in his address. He will not stand on ceremony for a man who can't even look him in the eye.

"Do not speak to me as if you have any say in my movements, insolent boy," his father says coldly.

Before Dorian can respond to that as it deserves, his mother cuts in, "There was an unfortunate incident. Your father was attacked."

She squeezes her husband's arm, looking up at him with with a resolute devotion devoid of any warmth. Dorian had long ago realized his parents' lasting marriage has little to do with affection, and everything to do with shared ambition. She dotes on them both because it pleases her to put on the act of a loving wife and mother, but it has only ever been a means to an end.

Dorian raises an eyebrow, shifting his weight onto one foot and leaning against his staff, knowing it will make him appear entirely unconcerned by the news. "He looks unharmed," he points out. _What a shame_ , he does not need to add.

"The assassins had the advantage of surprise and numbers, but not skill," his father sneers. "I left one alive long enough to question."

"So you found out who sent them?" Dorian asks.

"Eventually."

"And that is why you have returned early," Dorian concludes, barely refraining from rolling his eyes. "For revenge."

"If you think the Pavus house will tolerate such an affront without meting out swift retribution, you are not worthy of bearing the name," his father says.

"Has it not occurred to you that 'retribution' is what caused the attack in the first place?" Dorian retorts. "When does it end? The more we take matters into our own hands--"

"A mage too weak to destroy their own enemies cannot be sheltered from their deserved fate," his father says, with the same conviction of one quoting the Prophet Herself. He continues, with a scoff, "The fact that you would consider otherwise for even a moment brands you with the same weakness."

"Apparently, the magisterium does not share your opinion," Dorian says. Feeling vicious, he adds, "And if you are so concerned with weakness, I should point out that _I_ have never had to resort to blood magic to gain their notice."

"You arrogant little--"

"Enough!" Dorian's mother interrupts, her voice ringing loud over both of theirs. Once they fall silent, she smiles sweetly, patting her husband's arm and addressing them both in soothing tones. "My darlings, let's not argue. What's important is that you are safe, my love, and the villain who dared raise his hand against you eliminated."

"You've already killed him?" Dorian asks.

"Along with his entire household, yes, of course," his mother says, with a dismissive wave of her hand.

Dorian swallows back his instinctive response. "Who was it?" he asks instead.

"Caelus Silva," his mother replies. "A member of the senate, if you can believe it. Well, a former member." She hides a delicate laugh behind her fingertips, amused by her own joke.

Dorian had known Caelus. He had no love for the man, but the Silva household included a wife, three children, and well over two dozen slaves. Dorian closes his eyes, suppressing a shudder of horror. How had it been done? Neither of his parents have any qualms about getting their hands dirty, and they would have used this as an opportunity to send a clear message to others.

"An example had to be made," his father says, echoing Dorian's thoughts.

"I have no doubt that you were able to do so," Dorian says flatly. He is desperate to leave their presence, to escape the inexplicable sense of _wrong_ suffusing the air. He manages a perfunctory bow to his parents, not wanting to give any excuse to be kept behind. "If you'll excuse me, I shall retire to my quarters for the rest of the evening. Marcus can serve me dinner."

"He is dead," his father says.

Dorian stares at him, uncomprehending. He recognizes the words, but not their meaning. "What did you say?"

"Your pet is dead," his father says, with obvious relish. "I slit his throat myself."

Not for nothing is Dorian the youngest magister in over fifty years. He moves with near inhuman speed, acting without thought, the Fade flowing through him with pure intent. His father is knocked off his feet by the energy blast and sent flying, slamming against the staircase banister hard enough to splinter the wood. Fire swirls to life at Dorian's feet, the flames blue-white with scorching heat, ready to be hurled towards their target.

In the next instant, Dorian's entire body is wracked with searing pain. He cries out, dropping to one knee, the fire spell flickering out with a hiss.

"Careful, darling," his mother says coolly. Her hand is outstretched towards him, long fingers curled into claws. "You wouldn't want to do anything foolish, would you?"

She drops her hand, and instantly, the pain vanishes. Dorian staggers to his feet, gasping, leaning against his staff in a real effort to stay upright. His father has already picked himself up from the floor, looking both murderous and smug. He crosses the atrium to return to his wife's side, brushing off his robes and running a hand through his graying hair.

"If you were not my only son, I would kill you for that," he spits out. "I would do it anyway, if I thought for even a moment your mother might not object."

"My love, you will break my heart, speaking that way," his mother sighs theatrically. "Please, darlings, there's no need for this nastiness."

"What do you mean," Dorian nearly chokes on the words, "he's dead?"

"Oh, my dear, I _am_ sorry," his mother says. "I know you were fond of that one, and he performed his duties admirably, I'm sure. But sacrifices must be made, by all of us, to protect this family. It's not just your slave, after all. It was a particularly powerful spell required of us, so all of them had to be given up."

All of them. _All of them_.

With a sickening lurch in his stomach, Dorian realizes what the unpleasant odor in the air is. The entire house is permeated with the scent of blood. The blood of nearly twenty slaves.

Tullia, Melanus, Livia, Hespera, Philemon...

Marcus.

"He was my slave." The words are ripped out of him before he can stop himself, and Dorian hears himself shout the wretched protest a second time: "He was _mine_! You had no right!"

"You own nothing that was not given to you through our generosity," his father says harshly. "Ungrateful child."

"I know you're upset, darling," his mother coos, ignoring her husband's pointed glare. "If time had not been of the essence, we would have prepared you. But we shall get you another, my dear, first thing tomorrow. We'll visit the same broker, ask for something similar."

Dorian wants to scream, _He had a name! Do you care?_

But of course they didn't. Not about his name, or the fact that he had ever drawn breath in the first place. They didn't care that he was vain and proud and fiercely stubborn, yet endlessly forgiving and kind despite all he had endured. That he was fond of cider even though it gave him headaches, or that he had read every single book in the house cover to cover. That after four years, Dorian can count the number of times he heard Marcus laugh on one hand. That he was the only man Dorian had ever truly loved.

All at once, Dorian feels his rage vanish, replaced with guilt and a grief so acute he half expects his heart to burst in that instant, striking him dead. But the traitorous thing keeps beating, whispering _mine, mine, mine_.

He feels sick, stained with innocent blood as surely as his parents, as the rest of the entire Blighted Imperium. Every stone of every building soaked with the blood of slaves, lives owned and traded and destroyed, and Dorian had done _nothing_. He had made pretty promises and convinced himself of his own noble intentions, but they were all just empty words. It had only ever been a distant and vaguely defined goal, something to strive for as he furthered his own position and turned a blind eye to what was happening all around him.

And now that the brutal reality of it has directly affected him, his first instinct had still been to claim ownership of a life.

He is no better than any of them.

_And what shall you do?_

Marcus' voice, as clear and challenging as the first night they had met, echoing the same question from four years ago.

"Leave."

"What was that?" his father demands.

Dorian shakes his head, casting off his dreamlike reverie. He meets his father eyes, drawing himself up to stand straight-backed and tall. He does not waver.

"I am leaving," he says, resolute.

"Don't be hasty, darling," his mother says hurriedly. "There's nowhere to go this time of night. Go along and rest, dear, you will feel better in the morning."

"I am not leaving the house, I am leaving the Imperium," Dorian says firmly. "I cannot stand idly by and watch Tevinter tear itself to pieces."

His father barks out a derisive laugh. "You show your true colors at last," he jeers. "It is not enough for you to be a deviant and a fool, you must also prove yourself a coward."

"I am the future of Tevinter," Dorian declares boldly. He imagines, fleetingly, the way Marcus would have rolled his eyes at the dramatic statement. Grief threatens to overwhelm him again, but for a precious moment, he finds strength in the memory. He grits his teeth and pushes on, "We were once a glorious empire, yet now we bleed ourselves dry to snatch up whatever scrap of power is to be had. Minrathous will crumble before long, and the rest of the Imperium with it. I will not find answers staying here to witness it happen."

With a final nod, he turns on his heel and heads for the stairs leading up to his quarters. He would happily leave right now with nothing but the clothes on his back, but for once, prudence overrules his pride.

"Dorian!" his mother cries, too shocked for endearments. "You cannot abandon your family! Your duties! You are--"

"A Pavus, an Altus mage, a magister's son, and a magister," Dorian counts off his titles, feeling the weight of each one fall away as he says them. He does not pause as he climbs the stairs, raising his voice as he calls back, "I will not return until I have made them titles worth bearing."

+++++

The sun rises in a cloudless sky, and the great towers of Minrathous cast their vast shadows over the glittering capital.

On the long and winding road leading away from the black stone cliffs, a lone figure makes its way south.

end.

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings for: consent issues (non-explicit intimate relations with a slave), implied violence, implied torture, minor character deaths, and homophobia.


End file.
